


let it happen

by Windybird



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fictional Religion & Theology, Grief/Mourning, Identity Issues, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Toxic Masculinity, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Men Crying, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Partner Betrayal, Post-Betrayal, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Psychological Torture, Qunari Culture and Customs, Relationship Study, Seheron (Dragon Age), Trevelyan (Dragon Age) has Sibling(s), Trevelyan Isn’t the Youngest Sibling, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentions of BDSM, tfw u kill ur bf's friends so he kidnaps u and takes u back to his homeland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23942146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windybird/pseuds/Windybird
Summary: "They died fighting," Cole says. "In your mind, they hated you, but you're doing it wrong! That isn't what Krem thought!""Well, then..." Bull trails off, before he clenches his jaw and turns to face him. "What did he think?""Horns pointing up."˚ ˚ ˚ ˚The Iron Bull can't bring himself to kill the Inquisitor during the battle with the Viddasala. Instead, he brings him in chains back to Par Vollen, lauded as a prize jewel of the Inquisition and tortured for intel on the Inquisition's forces. But when Trevelyan manages to escape their clutches, Bull is placed in charge of the man-hunt to find him. Dead or alive.
Relationships: Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Iron Bull/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. The Little Goose

“Micah,” He croons softly, sweetly, under his breath. “Where are you hiding, you little goose?”

He’s sure that’ll bring him out of his hiding place- Micah always did protest at being called “little goose,” said he was already eight and far too old for the likes of that-, but Micah’s evidently decided to stay resilient this time around, stick to his hiding place even when he knows that Lionel’s bound to find him, sooner or later.

The problem with Micah is that he still thinks that if he can’t see Lionel, Lionel can’t see him. That’s why, during the past half an hour or so, Lionel has found him five times in a row, two of them for the sole fact that he could see Micah’s distinct outline behind the curtains in Dale’s old bedroom.

But here, in the corridor, there’s no curtains to hide behind. And Lionel is fairly sure that Micah’s hiding here; he’s checked all of the usual spots- behind Elia’s bureau, underneath his bed, cramped in the small space between the stone oven and pantry in the kitchen. He’s even asked the maids if they’ve seen him around, which he hasn’t had to do in a while. No dice.

So the corridor leading to the east wing seems like a good place to finish his search. When they were moving from the east wing into the west last year, following the incident, Mother and Father had left much of their furniture behind. The corridor had the last remnants of their old bed frames and rugs, plush velvet chairs and tables- the perfect hiding spot, truly.

_But not perfect enough to allow Micah to hide from me for long_ , he thinks, with a grin. And sure enough, there’s Micah’s shoes peeking out from behind a tablecloth draped over the table they used to eat breakfast at with the servants, when they were little.

“Hm,” Lionel says out loud, tapping his chin. “I wonder where-oh-where that little goose has gone to now. Could he be in the- _wardrobe_?”

And upon saying the word, he leaps forward and throws open the doors of a wardrobe with a bang loud enough to make even himself wince. From the corner of his eye, he sees the tablecloth rustle.

“Oh, well,” Lionel says, heaving a big sigh as he rocks on his heels. “I suppose I’ll never be able to find him, and he’ll be stuck hiding forever. I wonder what in the world he’ll have to eat- dirty old rugs and dust bunnies, perhaps? Or maybe the crusted, dried glue from rotten old books? Poor, poor Micah.”

Silence. Then, a small, barely-there giggle. Lionel’s face cracks into a smile.

“Oh?” He says, mock-surprised. “What’s that? Do my ears detect me? Could that have possibly been my little brother? But surely that can’t be the case. He’s been hiding for far too long to throw in the towel now. For he knows that, when I find him, I’ll throw him into the cauldron for supper!”

As he speaks, he creeps closer and closer to the table. On the last syllable, he throws the tablecloth off and reveals Micah crouching beneath the table. Shrieking with surprised laughter, Micah darts forward, obviously intending to outrun Lionel- but Lionel’s too fast for him.

Quick as a flash, he grabs Micah round the middle and hoists him into the air, spinning him around as he makes gobbling noises in the crook of his neck. He’s getting a little too heavy to be tossed around like this- after all, he _did_ just turn eight, and Lionel’s eleven-year-old arms are a little too scrawny to fully carry a sixty-pound weight-, but Micah’s obviously enjoying himself, squealing as Lionel rubs the cold tip of his nose against his soft cheek.

“Uncle! Uncle!” Micah cries finally, and Lionel, ungracefully, sets him down onto the floor. His arms are trembling in earnest now, but it’s worth it to see Micah’s grin, too big for his face as he cranes his neck to look at him.

“I was hiding there for an hour!” He exclaims, as they begin walking back down the corridor. “You’re a bad, bad seeker, Lion.”

Lionel gasps, his hand fluttering up to his heart.

“You wound me,” he tells him, contorting his features into a mask of pain. “You know it’s always been my lifelong dream to become a Seeker of truth.”

“And work with the templars?” Micah makes a face. “Blegh.”

They descend the staircase in silence. Lionel glances over at him; his smile has faltered, just a little.

“You had that dream again last night, didn’t you?” He asks quietly, and though Micah says nothing, the corners of his lips pull downwards as he leans against the baluster at the end of the staircase.

“They’re just dreams, Micah,” he continues, and Micah huffs a little.

“I know,” he says, voice low. “Mother and Father said the same thing.”

Another uncomfortable silence. Lionel’s eyes stray over to the window, where snow is falling in gentle tufts outside. It’s been snowing nonstop for the past several days, much to their parents’ annoyance (they can’t attend nor host parties when half of Ostwick is stuck inside their houses, after all), but the snow’s let up just enough for a hint of the sun to peek through the slate-gray clouds.

Lionel smiles.

“Let’s make snowmen,” he says decisively, turning to Micah. “Or we can go sledding, or skate on the lake-“

“Truly?” Micah asks, face lighting up. But then he bites his lip uncertainly. “But Mother and Father told us not to go outside without their permission. They said the ice on the lake is too thin, that the snow’s falling too heavily for us to go ‘traipsing through the woods’ by ourselves.”

Lionel waves a dismissive hand.

“Are you really going to listen to those old codgers,” he asks, leaning forward and ruffling Micah’s hair, “or are you going to listen to your brother, whom you love and adore beyond rhyme and reason?”

“I do not,” Micah shouts, laughing and pushing Lionel’s hand away. “But- alright. It’s either that or being cooped up all day, anyway.”

“There are only so many times I can beat you at hide-and-seek before it starts to grow boring,” Lionel agrees, causing a minor scuffle between the two until Micah finally concedes defeat. Panting and grinning wildly, Lionel leads them into the foyer, where they shrug on their fur-lined coats and boots.

It's at that moment that Marjorie decides to peek her head in.

“What are you boys up to?” She asks suspiciously, eyes darting from Lionel to Micah. Lionel tenses- Micah’s never been good at lying, and certainly not to Marjorie, who’d been their nursemaid since the day either of them were born.

“We were going to check in on the plants in the conservatory for you, Marjorie,” Lionel says quickly, trying to look as innocent as possible. “We know how your back’s been aching because of the cold weather, and we wanted to spare you the hassle.”

Marjorie still doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she softens a little bit despite herself.

“You two make sure to hurry home before supper,” she orders. “And Michael- button up that coat of yours. Goodness knows what your mother would do to me if she’d learned I let you run wild in the middle of winter without proper attire. And tie up those boots, Lionel! Do you want to go around sporting a concussion because of your own fool head?”

Lionel resists the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely.

“Yes, Marjorie,” they both chorus- Micah dutifully, Lionel long-sufferingly. Marjorie sighs, shaking her head dubiously before exiting the foyer. Lionel and Micah exchange a grin.

“After you, my good sir,” Lionel says, opening the front door.

“Why, thank you, kind lord,” Micah responds, in exactly the way Lionel taught him, before skipping out into the white wonderland before them. Smiling, Lionel shuts the door behind him and follows Micah out into the snow.

* * *

Drenched with sweat, Lionel wakes up with a gasp.

His hands are clenched in the sheets, chest heaving as though he’s run a mile, and it takes a few seconds before he realizes where he is. He shuts his eyes, breathing hard through his nose. He hasn’t dreamed about that day in a long time, but he’s been foolish in supposing that the dreams have stopped completely.

Micah’s face is etched beneath his eyelids, grinning and wide-eyed and flushed with excitement, and it causes such a stabbing, potent pain to lance up through his chest that his eyelids fly open, his hand clawing erratically at his heart through his thin nightclothes. Something shifts beside him, and it’s only then that he remembers he’s not alone.

“Kadan?” Bull asks, and though it’s the middle of the night, all trace of sleepiness is gone from his voice. “Are you alright?”

Lionel doesn’t trust himself to speak- he’s worried that, if he does, it’ll come out as croaking as a prepubescent boy’s-, but he can feels Bull’s gaze boring expectantly into his face. He manages to rasp out an, “I’m fine,” before he kicks the sheets off his body and heaves himself off the bed before Bull could ask any more questions.

He feels both hot and cold at the same time, shuddery, skin prickling with sweat. He throws open the doors leading onto the balcony and leans his forearms against it, pressing his entwined hands up to his forehead. When he exhales, he can see his breath as a puff of white in the frosty air.

“Doesn’t seem like you’re fine,” Bull comments from behind him. Lionel looks around to see Bull leaning against the door with his arms crossed, seemingly unconcerned that the wintry air is hitting every inch of his exposed skin.

“You should go back to bed,” Lionel says finally. “It’s late.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I’m not tired, either,” Bull says, persistent as always. Lionel tries to summon up the energy to be pissed off at him, but that dream’s taken more out of him than he thought. All he can manage is a minor annoyance, harmless and irritating as a fly buzzing near his face.

“Will you tell me about it?” Bull continues, his voice suddenly soft and gentle as he walks forward, pressing his chest against Lionel’s back. Sighing, Lionel leans backward and rests the back of his head on Bull’s shoulder, staring up at the moon above them, her light gleaming and impersonal, as distant as he feels.

He considers it for a moment. Bull knows when to push him and when to relent; he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t think Lionel could handle it. But Lionel also knows that Bull can be wrong- and often is-, about many things. This is one of them.

“No,” He hears himself saying. “I can’t. Please just go back to bed.”

It’s an unspoken order that they both hear. Bull hesitates, before finally pulling away and allowing a rush of cold air to hit Lionel’s back. Lionel profoundly dislikes the way he immediately misses the warmth of Bull’s body against him.

“Bull,” he says quietly, as he begins to pad away.

“Yeah?” Bull says, just as quietly.

“Don’t ask me again.”

“Okay, boss.”

True to his word, he doesn’t.

* * *

The nightmares started just as Elia and Dale came to visit, though of course they’d been happening for years by the time the two of them had showed up at Skyhold’s gates, flushed from the nipping winds and the long, arduous walk up the mountain.

Of all his advisors, Josephine seemed the most miffed that Lionel didn’t inform her of the fact that he was on good terms with his siblings. Or, if not good terms, at least better terms than he was with his parents. Of course, had she’d known beforehand, she would’ve held a feast in their honor, resplendent with tiresome small talk and even more tiresome praise, and Maker knew that Dale didn’t need his ego stroked any more than it already was.

He’d felt his throat close up when he saw them- a visceral reaction, instinctive and deeply felt, perhaps, from the sight of Elia’s tight curls sticking to her perspiring forehead, or the smile splitting across Dale’s face as he bound forward, gripping Lionel’s forearms in greeting and knocking their foreheads together.

“Leo,” said Elia, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair out of his face as he stared at her, slack-jawed. “What’s the look of surprise for, hm? Didn’t you receive my letter telling you we’d arrive today?”

“No,” Lionel had said, feeling as though he’d been submerged underwater as he stepped back to look at them. “No, I hadn’t.”

It wasn’t safe to talk there, though; too many prying eyes, too many straining ears. But Lionel wasted no time cornering the two of them as soon as they were safely inside his bedchambers. He felt uncharacteristically erratic; they’d swapped letters occasionally, but it had been years since he’d laid eyes on either of them, and seeing them now felt not unlike seeing characters from a book materialize before your very eyes; wholly unreal, and not a little disillusioning. Elia and Dale seemed far older than their respective twenty-eight and twenty-six years, their familiar faces creased with unfamiliar lines of worry.

“Have Mother and Father sent you to check up on me?” Lionel had asked in a low voice, as soon as the door shut behind them. Dale barked out a laugh at that- not unkind, but a little too loud and raucous than the question warranted.

“If they had, they wouldn’t have said as such,” He told him, crossing his arms over the shiny plate of armor bearing their family crest. Lionel hated how his eyes immediately fell upon it, forcing himself to look away though he desperately wanted to confirm whether it was Father’s or not. “They would’ve told us to gauge the threat the Inquisition poses towards our lands, or to ask your diplomat for a list of noble allies from Ostwick, or the like.”

“So then tell me what you _are_ doing here,” Lionel said through gritted teeth, following Elia up the steps leading into the interior of his bedroom so he wouldn’t have to look at Dale any longer. For starters, it was painful; out of all of them, Micah had resembled Dale the most, complete with the tiny gap between their front teeth and the dimple on the exact same spot in their left cheek when they smiled.

But it was more than that; there was reproach in Dale’s eyes when he looked at Lionel, reproach that wasn’t so unwarranted after all. Lionel hadn’t bothered to write in the past several years, let alone in the past few months, and he honestly wouldn’t have been all that surprised if they thought he was dead during that time.

“We don’t need Mother and Father to send us to check up on our little brother,” Elia said, taking a seat on his bed as she all but tore off her boots. They nearly flew across the room in her haste, and she wincingly bent down to rub at her feet as Dale took a seat beside her.

Lionel stayed where he was, leaning against the bannister of the staircase as he looked down at them. Elia had lost that stubborn bit of baby fat that she lamented having throughout much of her adolescence; it had been replaced by a hollow gauntness that immediately drew Lionel’s mind to the starving villagers of the Hinterlands, their eyes dull black flint above their sunken cheeks as they stared up at him. He frowned- surely Mother and Father wouldn’t have allowed their children to starve, right?

As if reading his thoughts, Elia shook her head. “It’s not hunger, Lionel. It’s exhaustion, nothing more.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Dale muttered from beside her, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have given me the last bit of bread and cheese this morning, Elia; you’ve eaten far less than me, and you need to conserve your strength after what happened with the- after what happened.”

Lionel frowned, turning his gaze back to his sister.

“’After what happened?’” He repeated, raising an eyebrow. Elia let out a sigh, running a hand over a curly crop of brown hair that was far shorter than the long locks Lionel had been accustomed to seeing throughout his childhood. The effect was startling; where Elia had been all soft shapes and lines in their childhood, she was now angular and sharp, and Lionel knew instinctively that if she took off her armor, he’d be able to count each and every rib.

“I tried undergoing the vigil of the Seekers,” Elia admitted, and Lionel blinked at her. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“Tried?” He asked finally, and her face darkened.

“It didn’t end well.”

“Not devoted enough to the cause?” Lionel asked archly, but even as he spoke he wished he hadn’t. Both Elia and Dale seemed more fragile than he remembered, their skin thin and stretched over their faces, armor hanging loose on their bodies. Traumatizing history or not, they were his siblings- siblings whom he hadn’t laid eyes on since the last summer ball his parents had ever forced him to attend. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes fluttered shut.

“How are they?” He said, in such a quiet voice that his words are barely audible, even to himself.

“Perpetually agitated by the civil war and the Inquisition’s growth alike,” responded Dale, his voice equally as quiet. “And worried for you, whether they admit it or not.”

Lionel jerked his face away so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash, the telltale signs of a headache beginning to throb at his temples as he stared unseeingly into the flames licking at the logs in the hearth.

“I’ll have someone show you to your rooms and bring you something to eat,” He said, before making his escape out the door.

That had been yesterday, and the tension between them then is vastly preferable to the tension that lies between them now, sitting together at the dining table for the first time in years with a handful of Lionel’s companions on either side. Those who his advisors could wrangle into attending a horrifically tense family dinner, at any rate, which sums up nearly half a dozen unlucky souls who hadn’t managed to outrun Josephine.

It’s all her doing, he knows; never in a million years would he have asked Sera to wear a terribly elaborate dress of the Orlesian persuasion, though the look on her face throughout the dinner might be worth the absolute terror he knows she’ll unleash later tonight. At least she’s not the only one suffering; Cassandra, sitting across from her, is only barely managing to reign in the steam that is all to desperate to emerge from her ears.

Bull has been uncharacteristically silent beside him, and though Lionel would never admit it in a million years, he’s worried. Bull’s asked him about his family before, but Lionel had remained tight-lipped, and whatever conclusions Bull had come to, he got them on his own. If the twin looks of surprise on Leliana and Cullen’s faces when they presented Elia and Dale to Lionel at the gates are any indication, none of his companions so much as guessed at their existence- which is precisely what Lionel had intended.

Oh, he knew perfectly well from the beginning that there would be inquiries about his family, but he took precautions to ensure they would be quelled before they became too unmanageable. And just as the gossip and rumors slackened, Elia and Dale decided to turn up out of the blue, complicating Lionel’s life immeasurably.

_But no,_ Lionel thinks sourly to himself, watching Dale attempt to spear a rail-thin slice of legume with his fork, _they couldn’t care less than their presence is going to make the next few weeks all the more difficult for me._

Abruptly, his back stiffens, face twisting into something stony and opaque; Bull’s been glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, and he already knows that there’ll be questions tonight that he can’t answer, regardless of whether Bull actually voices them or not.

“So,” Dorian says finally, breaking the awful silence that descended upon their table after Cassandra attempted to ask why Elia hadn’t completed the Seeker vigil after several years of training. “Tell me- Ostwick parties. Are they really as raunchy as everyone says?”

Dale raises his eyebrows. He’s downed at least four lagers of ale by this point, but he’s still cognizant enough to fixate an incredulous look on Dorian that would make their mother weep with pride. “Who’s everyone?”

“Me,” says Dorian. “I’ve come up with all sorts of theories about how you Southerners have a good time- most of which I can’t voice in polite society. But surely you’ve been to countless of them, hm? The Trevelyans are, after all, one of the oldest noble families in the Free Marches.”

“You’ve done your research,” Elia says guardedly, still smarting from Cassandra’s botched attempt at conversation. Dorian gives her a winning smile.

“But of course,” He says, popping a stem of a green and vaguely unpleasant vegetable into his mouth. Dale, who’s been struggling with his legume for the past five minutes or so, frowns. “The House of Pavus and the Trevelyans are interlinked, however remotely, and I would like to know how my extremely distant cousins are faring at unavoidable social events.”

“Lady and Lord Trevelyan are gracious hosts,” interjects Josephine from across the table, doing a sprightly job of avoiding looking as though she’d like to choke herself on the tablecloth, which Lionel is having less success at. “I’ve attended quite a few summer balls in my time, but the Trevelyans’ have entertained some of the most memorable.”

“You’re referring to when Great-Aunt Lucille exposed her husband’s affair with the serving-maid in front of everybody, right?” Elia asks, the right corner of her lip tugging upwards.

“Or when Lady Osher unintentionally spilled wine down the front of the Duke of Markham’s shirt?” Dale grins, abandoning the legume for the goblet of liquor sitting beside his plate. Lionel frowns. Though Dale’s always been something of a lightweight, he has the problematic tendency to believe his body can withstand the hardest of liquors even on his most well-fed days. As it is, with his collarbones jutting out beneath his umber skin so sharply it would probably cut Lionel’s fingers should he touch them, Lionel feels compelled to give him a look, which Dale wholly ignores as he downs another cup. “How about when Mother accidentally called the Duke’s fourth wife by his second wife’s name?”

“Or when Micah-“ Elia stops immediately, fingers convulsing against the tablecloth, but it’s too late. Micah’s name hangs in the air between them, like a ghost- or like something more substantial than that. Like something cloying and choking in Lionel’s throat.

Cole has been silent and watchful for the past half hour, but as he opens his mouth to speak, Lionel knows that he is going to say something cryptic and irrefutable and damning, and he won’t- _can’t-_ allow that to happen. He stands up so quickly his chair nearly falls backwards.

“Cullen wanted to work on military drills tonight,” He says shortly, when he finds himself on the receiving end of eleven curious gazes. “It slipped my mind. Continue the meal without me- it’ll take a few hours.”

He turns to leave before anyone can say anything. But as he quickly exits the hall, he feels the back of his neck prickle, and the moment he steps onto the grass of the outer courtyard, a hand grabs at the back of his collar.

Before he can reach for his sword, the hand is shoving him backwards. Furious, he whirls around and comes face-to-face with Dale, his eyes bright with liquor, breathing hard. Lionel wrenches his hand off his shirt, his anger mingling with a curious sort of dread, and it’s only when Dale speaks that he realizes he’s been unconsciously preparing for this the moment he saw Elia and Dale walk through those gates.

“What happened that day?” Dale asks, and the worst part about it is that it’s not asked in a drunken slur, or in a vicious rage- it’s asked in a deadly quiet voice, a voice that offers no refutations, no excuses. Lionel feels himself falter before he straightens up.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” He says, as icily as he can muster. “Now go inside before you do something you regret.”

Dale laughs suddenly, and the sound pierces the quiet night air like an arrow.

“Something I regret?” He repeats. “Something _I_ regret? More like something _you_ regret- and for what, Maker knows, because you haven’t said a single word about it since that day!”

“Dale,” whispers Elia, who’s suddenly materialized at his elbow while Lionel was fixated by the force of his own rage, surging up inside his chest as he stares at Dale. Dale shrugs Elia off as though she’s a meddlesome fly, and Lionel makes an aborted movement to push Dale back as his brother takes a step closer.

“Tell me what happened,” Dale says, lowly, and Lionel feels the icy-cold hand of- not fear, and not panic, but perhaps some potent combination of the two- claw up his throat, enough so that he knows his voice will fail him, if he attempts to speak. “That day in the woods. _Tell. Me.”_

The fury momentarily overpowers the not-fear, and Lionel leans in close as he hisses, “Shut your mouth. You know what happened.”

“But I don’t!” Dale cries passionately, hands gripping at his knotty curls, and Lionel vaguely registers Elia’s hands tugging at the back of his shirt behind him. “I don’t, because you didn’t tell anyone! You refused! All anyone could get out of you was that there was an accident, that Micah fell into the-“

But he doesn’t finish his sentence, because Lionel’s fist is making contact with his face. He feels something primal perk its ears inside of him as he tackles his brother onto the ground, as they claw at each other with no real skill or strategy save to draw blood.

“Don’t you _ever_ say his name!” He roars, grappling with Dale as Dale suddenly rolls them over, so that his knees are pressing in on either side of Lionel’s hips, screaming out something unintelligible as he claws at his face so violently that the skin of Lionel’s cheek tears open beneath his brother’s long, filthy fingernails. “You don’t know what happened that day, so shut your filthy mouth before I shut it for you!"

“You shouldn’t have even _been_ there!” Dale yells back with just as much vitriol, punctuating each syllable with a solid punch to the face. The bitter taste of copper floods Lionel’s mouth as he attempts to tear himself away from Dale’s fists, and he knows with a certainty that he’s going to wake up tomorrow mottled with bruises. “Mother and Father told you two not to go out that day! But you just had to go skating, didn’t you? And of- _fucking_ -course Micah followed you, he followed you around like a fucking lost duckling, even though it was me and Eliya who’d take care of him when he was sick, or when we had to nurse his wounds, or teach him how to tie his shoes! And what did you do, Leo? Huh? What did you do except lead him to his death?"

Never has Lionel wanted to kill someone more than he wants to kill Dale in this moment. The anger is always inside of him, creeping at the edges of his mind, but right now it drowns out every other feeling, enough so that a distant part of him wonders if tonight he'll deliberately kill his brother, this time around. But before the thought can fully come to fruition, Elia's wrenching Dale off Lionel, her face screwed up with barely-suppressed tears as she shoves Dale by his shoulders, hard enough that he drunkenly topples ass-first onto the ground.

“Enough!” Elia cries, standing between them. If not for the fact that she has far less worry lines, she can be an exact replica of Mother, complete with the finger-waving and emotional exhaustion evident in her voice. “That is _enough_. Get a hold of yourselves, for Maker's sake. You two are little better than children."

Dale, breathing harshly, spits at the ground at Lionel’s feet.

“Least we were able to grow out of our childhoods," He says, the words curling like acid in his mouth, before unsteadily striding away into the darkness. With a worried glance over her shoulder, Elia puts her hands on Lionel’s shoulders and gives him a once-over that probably isn’t as accurate in the dark as she’d like it to be.

“You’re going to hurt in the morning,” she says, matter-of-factly, “but not as much as Dale is going to after I kick his ass. Go get a few salves for yourself and turn in early, alright? I need to go find Dale before he manages to hurt himself even further."

Lionel says nothing. Elia sighs.

“He’s drunk, Leo,” she says, her voice more tired than he’s ever heard her sound before. “Drunk and completely, utterly out of his mind. He probably won’t even remember this come tomorrow morning.”

Lionel jerks his head away at that. Elia lets out another long-suffering sigh, before turning on her heel and hastily following the sound of Dale’s clomping footsteps against the pebbled stones. When Lionel finally turns his head back, he sees several silhouettes standing against the flickering lamps of the castle door’s threshold. Watching him. Among them is Bull, and Lionel’s rage only heightens at the fact that, as always, he can’t read the expression on his face.

“What are you looking at?” He demands, guilt and fury and long-repressed sorrow choking his throat, making it near impossible to speak. Without waiting for a response, he storms off in the opposite direction that Dale and Elia took, wishing the darkness would swallow him whole.


	2. Table Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i literally have no excuse for the hiatus except to say that being a college student is gross and i would not recommend it

Bull crawls beside him in bed that night, but he doesn’t speak, only shifts Lionel above him and into his arms without fanfare. His cheek lays against Bull’s chest, slowly rising and falling, but he knows without looking that Bull’s eyes are open, staring at the ceiling in the dark. A question- the same question that’s been plaguing Lionel for the past week or so- rises in his throat and bursts forth before he can stop it from emerging.

“How would you kill me?”

He can almost feel Bull’s eyes boring into the top of his skull.

“There a reason for you asking, kadan?” He asks, and though his voice is perfectly even, Lionel knows that he’s a little rattled. Just a little. If not by this, then by the fact that he can feel Lionel still wearing his day clothes in bed. Or by the fact that they made eye contact a few hours ago as Lionel was furiously shoveling hay for his dracolisk in the stables under the dim light of the moon, and Lionel had turned his back to Bull and continued to shovel hay until his arms were shaking and he had to drop Master Dennet’s shovel in the mud.

“You and Cole talked about it a few days ago,” murmurs Lionel, keeping his voice drowsy, unfocused, nonchalant enough that this could just be nothing more than a thought exercise, though he’s aware on some level that Bull’s internally picking apart his reasons for doing so as the words come out of his mouth.

“About how to kill you?” Bull asks finally, a note of incredulity in his voice.

“About how you think about killing everyone you meet,” Lionel corrects, raising his head so that his chin rests on the base of Bull’s chest and he can look at his face, though it’s pointless in the pervasive, all-encompassing dark of the room. “How did you think about killing me, when we first met?”

Bull falls silent for such a long time that Lionel doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer, until his voice breaks the silence so abruptly that Lionel can’t help but tense a little.

“I wouldn’t have tried to take you just then and there, because even with the Chargers-“ and here Lionel has to suppress a wince at the mere mention of their name- “I wouldn’t be able to get within a foot of you without Vivienne shooting a fireball down my throat, or Cassandra raising her axe to bash my skull in. I would’ve had to wait until later, ‘till we were back at Haven. I would’ve made some friendly conversation, invited you for some drinks later at the tavern, which you would’ve refused-“

“How do you know I would’ve refused?” Lionel interrupts, and he can hear the slight smile in Bull’s face as he responds.

“Easy. You don’t drink with people you don’t trust,” says Bull. “Anyway, after you refused my offer, I would’ve waited a few more days for you to warm up to me, and then I would’ve casually brought up Qunari war tactics in conversation. I wouldn’t speak a lot about it- just enough to pique your curiosity, and then, when you’d inevitably ask me to teach you some strategies, I would meet up with you in the war room. And when your back was turned, I would grab you from the back and slit your throat with a dagger.”

This time, it’s Lionel’s turn to fall silent. Then, setting his cheek back down against Bull’s chest, he says, “Playing the long game, then?”

Again, he can hear Bull’s smile in his voice, and there’s something in the knowledge of that smile across his face that sends a small shiver of- dread?- lancing up Lionel’s spine.

“For you, kadan? Always.”

* * *

Dale is absent during breakfast, and Lionel resents the sliver of disappointment that curls in the pit of his stomach as he takes a seat beside Elia. She hands him a fully loaded plate, resplendent with sausage and freshly baked rolls and a savory sort of pudding that Lionel takes one lick at before pushing the plate away altogether.

“I’m not hungry,” he says. Elia levels a disapproving look at him, before defiantly shoving her own food onto his plate. When the mountain of food is nearly teetering over, she pushes her own plate away and crosses her arms over her chest, looking at him pointedly.

“I’m not eating until you do,” she says, lifting her chin. Lionel scowls, but his anger falters when his eyes land on the unhealthy jut of her collarbones just above her shirt. They look sharp enough to cut glass, and though he knows she’s been starving after months of marching into Skyhold with nothing but what little Templar rations she and Dale must’ve received following Elia’s failed vigil of the Seekers.

“Fine,” He snaps, tearing off a bit of roll between his teeth and chewing with a ferocity that would befit a wild animal better than the legendary Inquisitor. Elia winces at the display, but, true to her word, she removes a sausage link from his plate and puts it back onto hers.

“We were worried about you,” Elia murmurs as she watches him eat, his throat bobbing busily as he begins carving into his food as his hunger resurges with a vengeance. The sight of the empty chair beside Elia has stirred something primitive in him, and because he can’t very well upend the table with one fell swoop of his arm as he wants to, he carves into his fennec pot pie like a man possessed instead. “The Iron Bull especially, it seemed. Is there something going on between the two of you, or…?”

Lionel’s scowl comes back.

“No.”

Elia raises her eyebrows incredulously at that.

“No?” She repeats, leaning back in her chair. “Then tell me why Dorian urged him to follow his _kadan_ off to whatever dark corner of Skyhold he decided to brood in.”

Lionel’s gaze jerks away from his plate of food and across the hall over to where Dorian sits, picking out bits of sausage Sera had been launching into his hair with a grimace on his face. He shudders, almost unconsciously, when Lionel’s eyes fall on him, though he’s still preoccupied with grooming his painfully styled coiffure. _Good_ , Lionel thinks, with a savage pleasure. If it’d been up to him, Elia- and Dale, for that matter- would’ve never even so much as guessed at the nature of his relationship with Bull. Which he has a hard time navigating as is.

“Kadan has many meanings,” Lionel mutters, refusing to meet Elia’s eyes, which have taken on an all too knowing gleam as they rest on his face. “It’s used more in a platonic context than anything else.”

“I’m just surprised, is all,” Elia says, holding her hands up in mock surrender when Lionel finally glances up at her. “I thought you liked girls-“

“I _do_ like girls,” Lionel gets out through gritted teeth. It’s true, too- at least, to a certain extent. Back in the Free Marches, he’d never so much as glanced at the men. Admittedly, the glances (or lack thereof) he _did_ sneak at the girls had just as much interest (or lack thereof, again) fueling them. But he’d chalked that up mostly to the fact that maintaining a courtly romance with a lovely young lady- or an illicit one with a nobleman, for that matter- struck him as particularly boring, at least opposed to battling a dragon or practicing war tactics in the Great Room with Dale.

But when he’d imagined his future, it had always been with a vague but undoubtedly feminine silhouette waiting for him in the threshold of the manor that Great-Aunt Lucille had set aside for him to be his marriage home. And before he’d met Bull, he had, in full earnest, never found himself attracted to another man before. It wasn’t like with Dorian, that much he knew for certain. After the magister had learned- with undisguised delight, much to Lionel’s chagrin- of his relationship with Bull, he’d attempted to bond over what he perceived as a marked similarity they shared. Lionel had brushed off his attempts with a marked indifference, though the truth of the matter was that it had startled him more than he would’ve liked to admit.

Because male or female, he would’ve found himself entwined with Bull either way- but he did have to admit that Bull’s being male had put him off for a long time. He had been raised with the traditions of a Free Marcher family, after all, and that included siring as many children as possible before his wedding bed broke into pieces. And though he never, in all sincerity, could picture himself in a domestic setting, the idea of bringing back some slender human heiress to meet his parents (back when they were on speaking terms, at least) was far more preferable than the idea of bringing back a towering Qunari, whose bulging biceps were bigger than Lionel’s head twice over.

“I do like girls,” He repeats, shaking himself out of his reverie. “But Bull is… different.” He isn’t even sure if he considers him a man, anyway- more of a beast, some gargantuan, wild thing that’s somehow crawled its way into his bed and his thoughts, though he thinks that’s best not to say out loud. Not with the walls listening to his every word, anyway, and Bull right behind them.

“Again, Leo, I don’t mind either way,” Elia says, though her voice has softened as she watched him process the reality of his attraction to Bull- which is a hard enough tonic for him to swallow, most days, let alone admit it out loud to his older sister, of all people. Lionel can barely admit it to himself as it is. Never mind the fact that the Iron Bull exudes masculinity like a tangible thing- to admit to himself than _anybody_ managed to wrangled their way into his heart, which had seemed like an impenetrable fortress of the most unyielding brick, makes him viscerally and profoundly uncomfortable, and more than a little ashamed.

He is the will of Andraste manifest, after all- surely he should’ve showed more restraint than he had when it came to matters of the flesh. And he’d never found himself weak in that regard, either, not until Bull showed up, with his stupid biceps and his stupid eyepatch and his stupid smile-

“But it does seem like you mind,” Elia finishes warily. Lionel’s eyes jerk to her face, which is now creased with worry.

“I don’t think about it,” He mutters, to which Elia lets out a little scoff. Lionel’s eyes narrow at her, shoulders tensing in anticipation of a fight, but she doesn’t seem to want to press it any longer, idly playing with a flaky breakfast roll between her slim hands.

“How are you?” She blurts out, after a pregnant pause. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, she adds, “And don’t brush me off like you always do. Dale hit low, last night, lower than I ever would’ve thought he would. He knows how you are about Micah-“

“What does that mean?” Lionel asks in his most dangerous tone. Elia frowns at him.

“You know what I mean,” she murmurs, looking around to make sure nobody’s overhearing their conversation. “Leo, out of the three of us, you were the only one who refused to speak for three months following his death. It hit you the hardest, and I get it, I do-“

“No, you don’t,” Lionel snaps, the anger coming to a slow simmer inside his chest, just as it had yesterday, but Elia doesn’t seem to be done speaking.

“And he was entirely in the wrong for bringing it up, especially in front of all your companions,” She continues, either oblivious or intentionally ignoring the increasingly dark look on Lionel’s face as she speaks, “but you can’t just brush this off. I know this hurt you, and I know this hurt him, too-“

“ _Maker damn him for all I care_!” Lionel bursts, loud enough to attract several looks from curious- and concerned- diners. In a quieter voice, he hisses, “As far as I’m concerned, he’s the only one hurting. I am the sword of Andraste herself. I could care less what my pathetic excuse of a brother thinks of me.”

“Leo-“ Elia begins, but Lionel’s on a roll now, the simmer transforming into a violent boiling as he speaks.

“He has the audacity to march here,” Lionel seethes, “enjoy _my_ hospitality, eat _my_ food and speak to _my_ companions, and he chooses to thank me by bringing up-“ but he can’t say Micah’s name, the word refuses to dislodge itself from his throat, and so he settles for shaking his head in inarticulate rage instead. “I’m warning you, Elia, the second I find him, I’m telling him to pack his things and get out of my sight for good. If he does not comply, I will order Commander Cullen to bring the entirety of his militia to Dale’s room and drag him outside Skyhold’s gates for all to see.”

“Leo!” Elia gasps in admonishment, but before Lionel can give a scathing retort, he finally notices the nervous servant standing beside Elia’s chair, clutching an envelope in his trembling hands.

“What is it?” He barks, and the servant gives out a faint squeak before thrusting the envelope out to him.

“It’s from your brother, my Lord,” he says, in a high, reedy voice. “He said to deliver it to you as soon as possible.”

Lionel and Elia exchange a look, before the former grabs the envelope from the servant, dismissing him with a sharp head-nod. The servant fumbles into a low bow before scampering off, and Lionel can’t suppress his eye roll before he tears open the envelope to read the contents within. His derision falters, however, as a sick feeling takes its place deep within his stomach.

“What is it?” Elia demands impatiently, her fingers digging into the doughy flesh of her breakfast roll. In response, Lionel throws the letter down onto the table and looks away, unable to watch Elia’s face as she reads the letter. A few seconds pass, and then-

“But that’s-“ Elia breaks off with a gasp. “He’s joining the soldiers headed for the Arbor Wilds!”

“Fool that he is,” Lionel murmurs, though he can’t seem to summon the usual heat in his voice as he speaks. There is a very real chance that Dale, for all his irritating qualities, has slipped through his fingers forever, and, judging from the look on Elia’s face, she knows it as well as he does.

A few painful moments pass, before Elia’s expression suddenly hardens into one of unyielding resolve, setting the letter back down on the table. Immediately, Lionel knows he won’t like what comes out of her mouth next.

And sure enough, she says, “I have to go after him, Leo.”

“I’ve already lost two siblings, Elia,” Lionel says tiredly. “Don’t make it a third.”

“You haven’t lost Dale yet!” Elia protests with an uncharacteristic savageness in her voice, running an agitated hand through her short mop of hair. “But you will if I don’t go after him and explain to him what a complete and utter idiot he’s being.”

“And what if he refuses to listen?” Lionel shoots back, just as viciously. “What if he says, _Oh, I’ll be fine, Elia, I’ve always planned my death based on how much it’ll spite Lionel, anyway-_ what then?”

Elia stares at him as though she’s never quite seen him before.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she says finally, a current of anger underlying her voice as she speaks. “I cannot believe you’re advocating for the death of a second brother-“

For a second, the anger burns white-hot in his mind, burning everything away.

 _“How dare you?”_ Lionel shouts, once he’s gotten control over his voice. “I’m not advocating for anybody’s death-“

“Really, Lionel?” Elia yells, getting to her feet so quickly, her chair skids backwards and lands with a harsh _thwack_ on the stone floor. This time, they’re receiving more than a few looks, but neither of them care enough to look away from where they’re viciously glaring into the other’s eyes. “Because to me, it sounds like you’re in favor of allowing your only brother to die serving under _your_ militia!”

“Go, then!” Lionel bellows as he, too, gets to his feet, pointing to the door without tearing his gaze away from her. “Run off with Dale, like you always do. But remember what I said- how I warned you that he would not listen to anybody, save his own fool self!”

Elia shakes her head mutely, evidently too upset to speak. A silence has descended upon the hall as they’d argued, and it rings now in Lionel’s ears, migraine-inducing as he stares Elia down. When she speaks at last, it is with a self-restrained quietness that is more terrible than the loudest shriek she could utter.

“Since I was a child,” She murmurs, still staring at him as though looking at a stranger, “I have defended you from everybody who gave you a side-glance following Micah’s death. When Mother and Father questioned your own motives at not bringing Micah’s body back home, I was the one who upheld your love for him, your innocence, your inability to lay a single finger on his head.

“Now, I’m beginning to question whether they hadn’t been amiss in wondering the true events of that day,” Elia continues blithely, as though she doesn’t hear the crack of Lionel’s heart breaking into two inside his chest as she speaks. And perhaps she doesn’t, though it feels loud enough to reverberate against the walls, the impact of it ringing through Lionel’s teeth. “Perhaps I’ve been too blinded by love this whole time to see the man in front of me, for surely the Lionel I know would’ve never allowed his brother to march off to certain death. But maybe you’re simply doing what you know, and what you have done in the past. I can't fault you for that."

And what can he possibly tell her? That the truth was that he buried Micah in the snow, breaking several of his own fingernails as he dug through the frost, accepting the physical pain as the price he had to pay to ensure that the rest of his family would never be forced to bear witness to what became of their youngest son and brother?

No. The truth would remain locked within him, as it always had, and as it always would be so. So he does not speak as she swiftly turns on her heel and makes her way out the door, amidst a painful, confused silence brought on by the onlookers. He schools his expression into something stoic as he realizes that, for the second time in a week, the eyes of the dining hall are upon him, and restrains from reacting long enough to carry himself, on heavy legs, all the way up to his quarters, as the hall bursts into bewildered whispers and comments behind him. It is only once the door has closed behind him that he allows the roar that’s been creeping up this whole while to come tearing out his throat, upending his desk as he’d wished to do with the dining table before. The letters fly everywhere, ink bottles smashing onto the ground and spitting glass everywhere, but he disregards them as he falls to his knees, and tears at his own head.

When Bull finally comes up that afternoon, Lionel is still in the same position, his trousers now stained with ink and embedded with glass shards, all his important documents fallen onto the floor in tatters when he’d roused himself long enough to rip at every bit of paper he could get his hands on.

To his credit, Bull says nothing, offers none of the criticisms or carefully-spotted observations about the deterioration of his own psyche that Lionel knows lurks behind his downturned lips. Instead, he lifts Lionel from under his armpits, as though he’s a child, and sets him down onto the bed. Then he exits the room and doesn’t come back for a very long time, so long that Lionel doesn’t think he’s going to come back at all, until he suddenly emerges into view, lugging a wooden bathtub in behind him. The nervous servant from before carries steaming pails of water on either arm and clutched in both of his hands, slender face flushing red with exertion, and Bull has only just set the bathtub down before one of the pails slips from his hand.

Lionel watches its descent with unseeing eyes before Bull stops it short, catching the pail and spilling some hot water onto his arm as he does so. He doesn’t even flinch as the water hisses against his flesh, but the nervous servant seems to devolve into a trembling mess, begging his pardon a thousand times before Bull eventually tires of it and sends him off with a pat on the back and a promise that he won’t seek him out afterwards for revenge.

“I don’t want a bath,” Lionel finally mutters as Bull begins to pour the water into the bathtub.

“Too bad,” Bull says, without looking at him. “You’re getting one.”

“Bull-“

“Elia and Dale will be fine,” Bull interrupts, still not looking at him as he sets the first bucket down and reaches over for the second one. “I told Cullen to send whatever soldiers were left over to intercept the troop Dale managed to wriggle his way into; they’re on their way now.”

Something unfamiliar and warm blooms in Lionel’s chest. He doesn’t think it’s anger, but then again, he hasn’t had the best gauge of his own emotions these days. He struggles to find a word for it as he watches Bull empty the second bucket into the tub, splashing some more hot water on his pants as he does so.

“My concerns are my concerns, Bull,” Lionel says finally, to which Bull gives no response. Louder, he adds, “I can take care of my own affairs- and myself, for that matter.”

Bull snorts derisively, but doesn’t say anything else, and that, more than anything, spurs Lionel out of the paralyzing gloom he’s been in all afternoon long.

“Don’t you get tired of it?” Lionel demands hoarsely. Bull finally looks away from the bathtub, but Lionel finds he can barely stand to meet Bull’s eyes, which, as they always have, see too much of him. He refuses to look away, though, even as his stomach flips with the sick realization that this man in front of him sees more of him than he ever would’ve thought possible, as opaque as he’s tried to become- as he’s believed himself to be- over the years. The irony that the one-eyed man sees more of him than anybody has is not lost on him, but it’s not appreciated, either, especially as his gaze zeroes in on Lionel’s face.

“Of what?” Bull asks, voice calm, level, and Lionel scowls at him. He knows damn well what he means, and yet the bastard is making him say it out loud. As per usual.

“Of-“ _taking care of me,_ comes the unbidden thought, much to his chagrin- “treating me like a child. Giving me baths, licking my wounds, coming after me the second an argument is had, as though I’m some frail, sickly thing- I don’t need it. Any of it. The second you realize that, we’ll all be better off in the long run.”

Bull stares at him, long enough that he has the resist the urge to squirm.

Then he says, “Take off your clothes.”

Lionel’s brain stops working for a moment. Bull’s lips quirk upwards as he gestures behind him, where he’s emptied out the rest of the pails while Lionel had been talking.

“For the bath,” he explains innocently, and Lionel grumbles but concedes despite himself, kicking off his ruined trousers and yanking his shirt off. He hesitates before pulling his underwear down, but it’s nothing that Bull hasn’t seen before, and it’s probably the most unromantic context that Lionel has ever been naked in front of him before. It’s not like he’s inadvertently going to harden, anyway. Not after the events of this morning. Still, the idea of being naked and vulnerable in front of Bull right now strikes him as particularly repugnant, and he crosses the room in a few short strides, settling into the bathtub quick enough that the water is still scalding hot as he settles in.

“You could kill me like this,” he says, staring up at the ceiling as Bull begins to shake his hair out of the thick knot at the back of his head. Bull’s hands still, before he continues massaging out Lionel’s hair from where it’s messily gathered up against his skull.

“And how’s that, boss?” Bull asks lightly. In response, Lionel brings his hands against Bull’s, pulling them away from his scalp and on either side of his neck.

“Like this,” he whispers, shutting his eyes so he won’t see Bull leaning over him, his face creased with an indecipherable emotion. “You wouldn’t have to come up with some convoluted plan to lure me into the War Room that might not’ve worked to begin with. All you have to do is put your hands on my neck and push downwards.”

“I would’ve had to get to this point to be able to do that,” Bull’s voice murmurs, as vague and blurry as the steam that’s rising above their heads, and Lionel’s lips curl up into what he thinks is a smile.

“Yes,” he says, eyes opening to see that Bull’s face is far closer to his own than it had been a few seconds ago. “You would have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of u interested (and not bc i definitely didn't forget to share this last time), this is what lionel looks like: https://ibb.co/mXzbmQj

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna be real this came about as me bemoaning the lack of fics on here following a bull betrayal and then evolved into "what if bull hadn't attempted to murder the inquisitor and instead took them back to par vollen where they proceeded to question the nature of their relationship while dealing with personal shit that's been repressed for the past twelve years" so uh here we go


End file.
